Vodka, Sweat, and Tears

A few years ago, I implemmented a pre-cohabitation training program known as Operation Rigatoni. This training program consisted of various household routines such as paying bills in a timely manner, washing dishes after they are used, taking the trash out every weekend, closing cabinet doors that had been opened, placing dirty laundry in a laundry basket, grocery-ing on a weekly basis, and wiping up liquid that had been spilled the same day as said spill. If you ever met the Rigatoni, you would immediately realize that training the Rigatoni to do anything would take massive amounts of vodka, sweat, and tears.

Operation Rigatoni started off pretty successfully with him being eager to help out and make our lives more organized in general. The "honeymoon" portion of our pre-cohabitation days quickly transformed into a downward freefall and I have been battling with the Rigatoni through these cycles of ups and downs ever since. Woah woah woah, you might say: Why are you being such a rageaholic bitch about meaningless household tasks? Why don't you worry about solving world hunger or volunteering at a homeless shelter? Because, goddamnit, that shit isn't nearly as important as the stuff I'm talking about here. I need dirty dishes to be in the dishwasher. I need clean clothes to be hung in the closet. I need mail to stay on the glass table by the front door in the area I have specified it to stay. I need both of the television remotes to remain on the coffee table. I need the second bedroom to not look like the fucking laundry basket barfed Banana Republic button downs and Penn State sweatshirts on every flat surface. I need the trash to be taken out every single weekend whether the bag is full or not. And for god's sake, I need the new toilet paper roll to be placed ON THE TOILET PAPER ROLL HOLDER.

Let's go over some of the excuses Rigatoni has thrown my way over the years: I was tired. I forgot. I didn't know how you wanted me to do it. I wasn't sure if that needed to be done this week. I fell asleep. I didn't have time. I got a call from my mom. I saw that it was late and didn't want to wake you up. It was raining. It was cold. I needed work clothes and only had time to do laundry. I thought I did everything. My stomach was bothering me. I had to pay some bills online. Time out. Let me understand this: You had to "pay some bills online" so you thought you would save a bunch of time by putting mail in the bedroom, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, in the second bedroom, and on the couch? Um, what?? Thank baby Jesus he isn't an attorney, because his defense is typically weak like a vodka sprite from a campus bar.

This morning I'm ready to walk out the door when I see something truly appalling: the couch is being used as a coat rack. I can feel the rage building. My plams start to get tingly and my heart starts to race. OMFG, not this again. My brain screams, Son of a bitch! Goddamnit! What the fuck! Rigatoni sucks! I paced toward the bedroom, flipped on the hallway light, and threatened Rigatoni with bodily harm if this abomination continued. It must have been too much for him to place his coats in the closet that is 4 feet from the couch.